


Whore

by RJPlummer90



Category: Peaky Blinders (TV)
Genre: Or try to, Series 4, Sex, Sex Work Is Work, Snow, and blindings, and for this hoe to keep him in his place, and i'm going to be writing a strong hoe in a time where it isn't easy to be one, but he's a dommy!tommy so there's that, going into series 5, i'll try and update these as i go along but get ready for tommy to be demanding and jealous, so tie your laces and join me for the ride but only if u want to, still ain't, there's some hoes in this house, tommy is tommy
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-27
Updated: 2020-08-27
Packaged: 2021-03-06 14:55:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,574
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26130742
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RJPlummer90/pseuds/RJPlummer90
Summary: This takes place during (and later post) Series 4, featuring a glasses wearing, whore aficionado, dommy!tommy being a bit not good.
Relationships: Tommy Shelby/OC
Comments: 3
Kudos: 26





	Whore

-

“You’re a whore, you know that?”

He leans forward when he says **It** , the cruel twist of his mouth looks all the worse with the look he gives her now; eyes shuddered, lids heavy with simmering rage. It’s the first time he’s said **It** to her ( _The Word_ ). Well, it’s the first time he’s said It to her like this, anyway; like he’s trying to show her she’s nothing, that her words are nothing, that all the truths she’s revealed about Tommy Shelby are nothing.

She isn’t surprised that he's finally used The Word. Men will be men and this time (especially this time) Tommy Shelby has the devil inside of him but he’s still just a man, albeit a man that’s lost control. Still, when men lose control, they get angry and when men get angry, well, she wasn’t about to stay to see Tommy Shelby get well and truly angry. He’s just a man, she reminds herself, a man that pays for her but doesn’t own her, doesn’t have rights to her as claims to. Tommy Shelby only has access to her as far as his sterling will stretch and if she needs a reminder about her status in society than bloody well so does he.

And, so, now, in the amber glow and halting piano notes of _The Canabarra_ ( _her_ domain, _not his_ because this isn't the fucking Midland) she treats him as if he were any paying man and decidedly _not_ the King of Birmingham, besides. It's in the way she looks down her nose at him like she's a fine lady and he's a chimney sweep, her eyes hard and disinterested (though her heart hammers), lips upturned in a saccharine poppy smile, the posturing of it a mockery of her own and if Tommy’s jaw tightens even further, then she fails to follow the warning. She takes a lengthy drag of her cigarette, careful not to let the gold holder click her teeth. Her voice is hard on her exhale, pitched low so that it doesn’t waver.

For all her bravado, for every man that came before him that hardened her, _jaded_ her, made her all sharp tongue and slow blinking eyes and soft skin and a smiling laugh that was as dazzlingly as it was painstakingly _affected_ , the lie of a woman perfect for every well-paying man sold easily with a whispered word here, a soft touch there. There's a careful line, though, that has made her successful in her line of work and that is that there is a difference between seduction and simpering but not every whore can get it right but, when you do, well, it's a fine difference between paying a another woman your shares to keep her house running and living on several allowances a year; established, _independent_.  
  
It's her seventh year of whoring but men come to _her_ now, not the other way round and Tommy Shelby is one of those men that sought her out for her name alone. But, the difference between Tommy and all the others (Lords and Barons and Dukes and Justice's and Rabbi's) is that he knows the moment she starts to _act_ with him, _playing_ the whore and the shiver that runs through her when he grips her jaw so that his eyes might settle on hers, his gaze absolutely glacial, looking as if he might strangle her right then and there, well, she’d be lying if it didn’t spark a fair degree of unease low in her belly but her anger remains unchanged. From the beginning, Tommy has wanted something from her that she she simply cannot give: to see _her_ and that is a luxury that no sterling can buy from whores, not even for him _(especially not for_ him). It is a luxury that she cannot, _will not_ allow him and it's what's lead to this, to all of this exhaustion. If she could give him back every pound knowing what he wants, _demands_ from her now, she fucking would. 

“I do indeed know that I’m a whore, Mr Shelby. In fact, it would seem that the only person at this bar that isn’t aware of that is you.” She sips her whiskey delicately, lipstick staining the rim, the ice cooling her tongue.

In his silence, she speaks again, tilting her head towards him, poising her cigarette on her lips once more. She leans forward as if they are two conspirators hatching a great scheme and not a gangster and his mistress having a rather unnecessary, distastefully _public_ disagreement.

“As it so happens, I have myself a patron that is due to meet me here, at this bar, in _my_ club at half eight -“ She leans even closer at this, elbow leaning on the table, neckline dipping low (low, lower) as she continues, reaches one red varnished fingernail and taps at his pocket watch and the movement makes him almost flinch, his fist curling on the table.

“And, this particular patron, well he's a Lord, a _real_ toff and all and _he_ wants to give me a Chateau in Calais and _you_ , Mr. Shelby, are in his seat.”

Her dismissal is clear. She waves her hand in his direction like he's an errant fly as she leans back and away from him, taking a generous drag from her cigarette. The silence in the club means that they're all straining for every word, she knows, but she doubts they can hear the blood rushing in her ears in time with the jarring sound of Tommy breathing heavily ( _angrily_ ) through his nose.

She reaches for her whiskey again but doesn’t get a chance to taste it. Instead, the glass is knocked over, alcohol staining the tablecloth and (distantly) she hears the glass roll off the table and shatter. She starts at the sound and looks for the source of it on instinct before looking towards Tommy again. He’s holding her up by her arm, hand wrapping entirely around the beaded sleeve of her rose colored gown and he's squeezing as he pulls her to stand up from her seat and the head-rush she has because of him has her temper spiking.

Now, she has to admit, he has surprised her and she’s certain it must show on her face (and that irritates her). She casts her eyes around the club but no one dares to look their way and when not even Bill comes into her view (where the _fuck_ is he), well, she feels her stomach drop; feels stupid for planning on Bill to get Tommy to leave when he came looking for her; feels just plain idiotic because of course Tommy had the foresight to incapacitate her protection, either him or one of his men though she scans the crowd and looks for more peaky caps, it's hard to see with her eyes blurring with rage. She clicks her teeth with displeasure and tests her arm against his grip but he squeezes hard enough for her to fight a wince even as her words become a low, feral thing.

“I swear to fuck, Tommy, if you've done something to Bill-” She aims for firm but lands somewhere nearing caustic fear because he’s stepping into her space and bowing his head low, lower still, his eyes near otherworldly in the dim club lights, a Fae King in full wrath. Tommy isn't an overly tall man but he is far taller and broader than she is.

He looms over her and she _hates_ it, hates _him_ for this as he keeps squeezing her arm with more pressure, watches as he seems to grow taller than her by the second (though maybe she’s just wilting under him but she won't accept cowering from herself, not ever), his jaw working impossibly tight now as he presses his fingers painfully into the back of her arm, lifting her but not quite lifting her. 

He’s showing her, how much stronger he is, how easily he can intimidate her physically, and while she wants to scratch at his pretty face in exchange for his display, she’s still far more thrilled by him than she is afraid of him and he knows it (always, always, always).

“Enough. Grab your handbag. We’re going.” He cuts her off, his voice so low in his chest that she can barely make out his words. He’s angry, lips appearing not to move at all as he hovers, closer and closer to her still and she swears he's about to melt into her skin at this rate. She ( _can't_ ) doesn’t move — doesn’t want to move.

"Where's Bill-" She puffs her words out, feeling all of the sudden short of breath and she doesn't like it, doesn't like this at all one bit.

“I said grab your fucking handbag and come with me or I’ll put you over me shoulder for all your people to see and I’ll not let you down 'til you’re in the fucking car.”

She lets out a shuddering breath at that. He’s so close to her that she can no longer see his eyes, obscured as they are as he bends his head to reach down to her, lips grazing her ear, breath uneven. She can see his pulse leaping in his throat — is sure if she puts her hand on his chest she would feel his heart beating as erratically as her own. She wants to know if he can hear his blood rushing in his ears, too.

“Fucking what-”

“One-”

“You tell me where Bill is now, Tommy-”

“Two.”

“Fucking get off! Bill!" She hollers for her friend even though she knows he's not coming, struggling right proper against Tommy now, her _war man_ as Bill liked to call him. She can hear the desperation in her voice and she’s shaking with the incredulity of it all, of how unreasonable and pig headed and so shamelessly _male_ he’s being. And, to top it off, he’s just so brazenly public about it all, isn’t he? He walks into _her_ club to dictate to her what _she’s_ going to do? Has no doubt knocked out _her_ Bill and left him in the alleyway and the vision of Bill without his eyes has her in a panic. No, she can’t have this scene, not like this. She wouldn't take a Baron's jealousy even for an allowance of twenty-thousand-pound a year and she certainly won't take Tommy's, no matter how lavishly he spends for her (and does he _ever_ spend). But, her temper is simmering on the surface which has never yielded positive results in her line of work (quite the opposite) and Tommy's refusal to answer her has the whiskey turning her insides sour, fueling her and he must know it, must _want it_ and she hates to cede him this win but she _fucking is_.

His face is unmoved even as he watches her cheeks flush with embarrassment (how dare he count her down like a child) and when he speaks, she barely hears his words, as resigned as they are, nearly pitying.

“Three.”

She doesn’t know which happens first; whether it’s when his leather gloved hands land on her hips, thumbs curving in a familiar motion that meant he was about to lift her -

Or whether it’s when she hits him, open handed, straight across his face, hard enough that his head snaps back with the force of it, hard enough that her hand leaves an angry maroon imprint across his cheekbone, hard enough that there’s several gasps from the room and she can barely feel how painfully her palm stings and throbs (hopes his face feels worse).

“Get your hands off me. We're done. Fucking get out.” She hisses and spits at him, finally, uncaring about their surroundings and fully submerged in this, in _him_ and if she thinks she sees a shadow of relief pass across her _war man's_ eyes, well, surely she's wrong because this isn't about _her_ , not really, it's about _winning_ , always has been and always will be, fucking business as usual. Tommy Shelby cares about winning but he certainly does not care about whores though the comfort is hollow. He wouldn't have driven this far at this time when he has business on (this isn't their regular evening) but her thoughts are jumbled and it doesn't matter does it because he's here to make a scene and prove a point and trying to fight, fight, _fight_ and win, win _win_ and sometimes she just wants to scream at her war man, shake him proper and say _aren't you tired, yet?_. 

At this point, she knows she's losing control because she's losing her temper but she can't stop the tide now that Tommy has successfully brought it in and it feels as if she’s watching everything between them pan out in slow motion; like she’s floating above herself and seeing the club and everyone in it from a different view. She can see Tommy and herself standing before the bar and she can see Tommy, turning his head back to face her with aching slowness and Tommy lifting her over his shoulder. Its only when she’s conscious of her hands clinging to his back, fingers curling into the wool of his jacket, that she’s suddenly back to feeling like she’s inside of her own body again.

She curses him the entire time he walks her to the car and while his reaction is utter silence, she curses him some more. She doesn’t even remember the words she says but for the best, filthiest curses, she punctuates those ones with hits to his back.

And when he all but dumps her into the passenger side of the car, she curses him then, too.

And when he shuts the door, she takes off her heel and smacks the window between them hard enough that the heel sticks and the glass splinters with a satisfying cracking noise but doesn’t break entirely, it just spiders out, fractured but in tact.

The sense of victory she has is fleeting. She doesn't know where Bill is, she's been carried out of her club like a sack of grain and she's in Tommy's car, just like he said, King's orders. She sags back into the leather seat, suddenly exhausted, and from the corner of her eye she can see Tommy still standing outside the car, can see how rapidly his chest rises and falls, lips parted as if he's been running, the winter fog chilling his breath, as cold as his eyes. After a moment, because she won't be cowered by a fucking gangster (by anybody), she turns to the window and levels her stare at him, just as furious.

They look at each other, then, through the cracks of the glass, both of them straining to calm themselves.  
  
After what seems like an age, Tommy walks around the front of the car and opens the drivers side door.

She watches him but says not a word as he slides onto the leather seat and closes the door on the rain that only just started. She expected him to slam it but he doesn't, still, the sound of the door shutting them both together in his Bugatti has a certain finale ring to it.

They’re both silent as Tommy takes the keys out of his coat pocket and starts the car and she wonders to herself: _how did it all come to this?_


End file.
